


Be My Thrill

by tinsnip



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Arguing, Canon Compliant, F/M, Lust with disgust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Season 4, episode 14, "Return to Grace". Kira is thrown into Dukat's company when he must escort her to a diplomatic conference on a Cardassian outpost. She's not too thrilled. He is most pleased.<br/>Highlights:  arguing (lots of it), lust (disguised and uneasy), and reflections on how the future can echo the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Paramount does. I thank them for telling us their story.  
> Disclaimer the second: I do not own this song. The Weepies do. I have taken some liberties with the order of the lyrics, may I be forgiven. Listen to and and purchase it [here.](https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/be-my-thrill-deluxe-edition/id375799573)

_Every morning is like the one before_  
 _And everybody needs someone to adore_  
 _I’m counting on you_  
 _Oh oh baby say you will_  
 _Oh oh baby be my thrill_

_Be my thrill_  
 _My little white pill_  
 _My unpaid bill_  
 _The one who will_

Kira stalked down the hall, shoulders tingling, acutely aware of the Cardassian behind her. Every sense in her body cried out _threat, threat, threat_ , and it was an ongoing effort to shut the warnings off and just walk, normally, without waiting for an opening to attack. _At least my hands are empty. The son of a bitch is carrying my bags._

            It was not quite the escort she’d expected. Her trip to Korma, the back-end of nowhere _(Cardassian nowhere, too, damn my luck)_ was not something she was looking forward to. Shakaar had been awfully wily to get her to agree. Then again, she’d known all along she could say no. He was just so… kind, sometimes. It made her feel guilty. If she could do this thing for him, then she would. Prophets knew she would probably disappoint him in the future. _He expects me to be a diplomat…? Whoo, is he going to be surprised._

            And to be travelling with Dukat… well, that wasn’t really adding to the positive aspects of the situation. She could hear him breathing behind her, his heavy steps matching hers, and it made her want to pull her head down and stiffen her neck, like a _pemmel_ trying to hide itself from a predator. It didn’t help that he’d told her of his loss of status, of his demotion from Legate to Gul, of his family disowning him. The son of a bitch. Everything that had happened to him, he’d brought on himself. It was no concern of hers. In fact, it was good news. _Keep telling yourself that, Nerys. Maybe it’ll stick._

His voice rang through the corridor, echoing slightly. “Major, I admit I was surprised to hear that you’d be attending this conference.”

            _Oh, good, we’re going to chat._ “Do tell.”

            “Well, this is a military conference, yes?”

            “You tell me.”

            “I understand you’ll be pooling information about the Klingons with my people’s finest intelligence agents.”

            “Something like that.” 

            She heard him breathe out; somehow, she could tell he was smiling. His voice carried wry amusement. “I confess, I was surprised that the current Cardassian government thought that the Bajorans would have any secrets worth sharing. No offense, Major. But we both know that your people have never been known for their… subtlety. I simply cannot imagine a Bajoran spy having anything worthwhile to offer a Cardassian agent.”

            _Motherfucker. Back at you._ “Well, I think the details of our information are a little above your clearance level, _Gul_ Dukat, so I suppose you’re just going to have to go on… _imagining.”_

            She strode on, enjoying the sound of the slight falter of his military footsteps. _Gotcha._ After a few more steps, she realized that he wasn’t following. She stopped and turned, looking back at him, a few metres down the hall.

           He was _smiling._

          “Oh, Major, it is going to be a delight to spend time with you again, I can already tell.”

          Her head pulled back; she raised her brows. “Really. I’m not feeling that same delight.”

          Dukat’s eyes widened a little; he was really enjoying himself. “Truly, Major? What a pity. And here I was hoping you’d be pleased to spend a little more time with me. We got along so well last time we travelled together.”

          “Yeah, it was a regular camping trip. I have trouble imagining how the two of us… spending _time_ together… is going to be enjoyable in any way.”

          Dukat’s smile faded slightly; he tilted his head, and studied her for a moment. “Major, this may come as a surprise to you, but captaining a cargo freighter is not quite as rewarding a pastime as defending Cardassia against her enemies. Every day is very much like the one before. I am relying on you to inject a little excitement into my life here, Major. Don’t let me down.”

          “Ahhh, _I_ see. My mission in life is now to entertain a defrocked Gul.” She felt disdain welling into her voice, dripping from her lips like venom. “Truly, I walk the path the Prophets have chosen.”

          His lids dropped, hooding his eyes. With mounting anger, she noticed his slight smile had now turned into a definite smirk. “ _Yes,_ Major. _Just_ like that. Do you know, I think you might be even more exciting than combat could ever hope to be.” His posture said _challenge,_ his hands said _lust._

          The urge to snap back, to say _something_ that would make him shut _up_ was almost overwhelming. _I want to hurt you. Oh, let me hurt you._

          Instead, she paused for a moment. She forced herself to relax, _shoulders down, hands open_ , lessons of childhood coming back to her, oh, almost painlessly. It barely hurt at all to turn away and continue down the corridor, swallowing her words and her anger. _He’s watching you. No challenge. No challenge._ _Prophets, keep me strong._

 

          There were a few things Kira knew about Cardassians.

          They were merciless bastards.

          They thought everything they did was right, because it made Cardassia strong, and trying to argue them out of that mindset was like trying to mine ore with your forehead.

          They loved ritual, and formality, and manners. If you were a Cardassian, speaking to another Cardassian, your words might be saying one thing, but a whole second conversation could easily be taking place with set of arms and angle of head. They called it _kotok temell,_ “second tongue.” It was like a layer on top of each conversation, changing words, shading phrases; it was powerful enough that what a Cardassian was saying and what he meant could be two terribly different things. She’d learned enough of their rigmarole to make her a useful spy, back on Bajor; she retained it still.

          And they _loved_ to fight. This did seem to go against their love for manners, but they’d found a way to work it in. They turned it into sex, instead. They read hostility as lust, and acted accordingly. It had been hellish sometimes, in the internment camp. Bajorans weren’t good at hiding their emotions. Bajorans liked to argue. And when a Bajoran woman argued with a Cardassian man, well, things got very complicated very quickly. Experience had been a quick, harsh teacher, and her lesson had been that the best way to deal with a Cardassian was to look away, to hide her feelings, to scrub all emotion from her voice and simply acquiesce. No challenge meant no interest. It had eaten at her – to bend, to comply, so that she could live another day. When she’d joined the resistance, she’d taken fierce joy in howling out her rage as she finally fought back, letting years of suppressed emotions boil over and take her with them.

          Now, as a diplomatic liaison – _my true calling, at last, what joy_ – she had to suppress her emotions once again, eat her anger, talk peace with a people she’d once sworn to kill without mercy. It had been horrible, at first. She’d had to fight her own instincts every day. Some nights after her shift, she’d needed to scream herself hoarse in her quarters, just to calm herself down enough to be able to pray. She’d thought – _I’d hoped_ – that it was starting to come more naturally. She’d even found it in herself to pity one Cardassian, to care for another almost like a father. Every day, they looked a little less like targets, and a little more like people.

          But seeing Dukat… every time, it was like she was back in the resistance, blood thrumming, predatory, waiting for her moment to strike with all the anger she could bring to bear.

 _One day, Dukat. Not today. But one day, you and I will settle all our unpaid dues._ Until then, she wove her anger into her bones, praying that it would make her stronger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira's reeling from her role in returning Dukat to power, and can't figure out how she feels about the way she's shaped his life. Ziyal's hero-worship only makes things worse.

_Be my love_  
 _My little grey dove_  
 _My push and my shove_  
 _My heaven above_  


 

            The ways of the Prophets were never clear. One could but trust in their strength to guide one’s footsteps through the fog. But the last few days had left things unusually murky for Kira.

            In those last few days, she’d left for a political conference at a backworld outpost, found that outpost destroyed, allied with _Dukat_ to chase down its destroyers, _stolen their ship_ … It just kept getting more incredible the longer she looked at it. She knew she was but a tool to implement the Prophets’ will, but was _this_ really what they wanted _?_

            Dukat was now captaining this Klingon bird of prey, a far cry from the creaking freighter he’d dragged to DS9. Could this possibly be a good thing? He’d told her once _– really, only a few days ago?_ – that everything he’d lost he would regain. She’d taken it for his typical bluster. And now he piloted a warship again, and proposed to throw it against the forces of the Klingon Empire, with no support but his own stubborn Cardassian spine. _Arrogant. Stupid. People don’t change._

            And she’d put him there.

            Prophets, what had happened to her? Seeing Korma, ruined and smoking, had ignited something within her, so that she couldn’t help but smoulder with rage. The smart thing to do would have been to turn around, to run back to DS9. They could have had the Defiant ready to go within hours, and perhaps could have picked up the Klingons’ trail. At the very least, they could have sent a signal home to the station, calling for aid, and crept quietly after the Klingons until backup arrived. It would have been the smart thing to do.

            _But it wouldn’t have been the Resistance thing to do._

            Strike hard. Strike _now._ Make sure that your message was heard right away, that no act of atrocity was allowed to slip into memory, to become less than raw and real. She’d lived by that scripture. It seemed she still did. _I don’t change, either._

            She’d pushed Dukat, shoved him out of his self-pitying complacency, fed him the ideals that had once nourished her own starving spirit. She’d yanked him out of the mire he’d wallowed into. She’d initiated him into the Resistance. _And what a fighter he turned out to be._ It had felt _good,_ watching the glow of battle in his face as he learned that victory against the odds was far sweeter than victory predestined. _You get a taste for it. Once is never enough._

            And now he was going to pit his pathetic little ship and its tiny crew of semi-loyal Cardassians up against every Klingon warship he could find. Stupid. Hopeless. The futility of it was so very familiar, so very… Bajoran. _No one ever thought we’d win, least of all us._

            It was fascinating, how the tapestry the Prophets wove could incorporate the same pattern again and again, each time in a different hue. Looking back, she could see how the warp and weft of her life and her circumstances had woven together to create who she was now. Could it be that the Prophets now planned to use her to instruct the weaving of another’s life, to make something beautiful out of what was so ugly? _A chance to follow my d’jarra…? Me, with hands like blunt instruments?_

            No. Patterns were one thing, the Prophets were another, and Dukat was a third altogether. _Don’t look for redemption here. You’ve done what needed doing, with the tools you had available. You get a jumja stick and a pat on the back. Now get the hell out of here and get back where you belong, and don’t look behind you._

            But nothing was ever that easy. By now, she should have known.

            She stared in dismay at the young woman smiling at her, eager for battle, wanting to learn from the best. _This is not how I wanted to shape a life._

            “Ziyal, fighting the Klingons will take more than being able to fire a weapon or use a knife. You have to learn how to be ruthless… how to hate the Klingons even more than you hated the Breen.”  _Remember the mines? Ziyal, you don’t want to go back._

            Ziyal’s face set. “Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. But I’m going to need your help.”

            _Oh, no._ Kira recognized the expression on Ziyal’s face. She’d worn it, once. _To help my father. To help my friends. To defend my people. Prophets, what wouldn’t I have done?_  

            She’d thought she was done killing. But here, once again, she had only to reach out, and death upon death would follow. _If you teach someone to kill, are you still the one doing the killing?_

            There was no place for hatred in someone who, despite the life she’d been handed, could still smile like that.

            “You’re right. You do need my help.”

            Ziyal’s smile widened, shading from disbelief to joyful conviction…

            “You need me to get you off this ship.”

            …and dropped from her face as if it had never been there. Kira felt a momentary stab of regret at seeing it go.

            “Nerys, what are you saying?”

            “I’m saying that this is not the place for you. You don’t belong in this fight.”

            Now Ziyal’s expression had darkened, her mouth narrowing. “I belong where my father is, Nerys.”

            “Ziyal…” Kira searched for words. “Your father is choosing a very dark road. He’s going to learn some tough lessons. I don’t want you to learn those lessons, too.”

            “I grew up as a slave in a dilithium mine, _Major._ This certainly can’t be any worse!”

            “Worse? No. But very different. It’s one thing to be enslaved, Ziyal. It’s another thing to fight back. It’s not the noble, honourable thing it sounds like. It…” and Kira’s eyes closed for a moment, then opened to focus on Ziyal, intense with memory, “it eats you alive. I don’t want that for you. Your father wouldn’t want it, either.”

            Ziyal’s shoulders were sagging, her hand loosely gripping the knife that had no doubt seemed so deadly a few minutes before. Kira watched her body signal _defeat, disgrace_ , her second tongue still so rudimentary, a legacy from a planet that didn’t want her _._ She tried to remember, tried to structure her own pose to signal _reassurance, belief._

            Ziyal’s eyes widened slightly as she looked at Kira. _Yeah, that’s right, kid. See me. A Bajoran, trying this hard to be Cardassian, just to reach you? What does that tell you?_

            What it told Ziyal was apparently not what Kira had intended, for the corners of Ziyal’s mouth pulled down in disgust.

            “My father… He loves to talk about you, Major. You know what he tells me?”

            This wasn’t where Kira had seen this conversation going. She was guarded, but pleasant. _I’ve got to reach her._ “What, Ziyal?”

            “He tells me that you could have made one of the best Cardassians he’s ever known, if not for your ‘unfortunate Bajoran birth, and miserable upbringing.’” Ziyal’s sweet voice took on a mocking tone, the speech patterns and intonation of her father coating her words thickly.

            Kira had no idea what to say to that. “A… A Cardassian? I…”  Self-consciously, she let her limbs hang loose, erasing the overtones of second tongue, shedding her attempted Cardassian veneer. Ziyal noticed. Her eyes narrowed.

            “And is it such a terrible thing, to be a Cardassian, Major? At least we know how to love.”

            A second, explosive volley, from such an unexpected source. Kira was pinned down, trapped under fire, with no words to throw back.

            Ziyal seemed to relish Kira’s lack of response. “Father says it’s a shame that you’ve turned out as cold as you have. But that we can’t blame you. You certainly wouldn’t have chosen the life you’ve led, full of hate. He says it’s a pity you will never understand the person you could have been – an honourable person, a truly moral person. Kira, he tells me about you as an example of what _not_ to be.”

            There didn’t seem to be any emotion inside Kira. This was not normal. Usually she had to tamp it down, hide it away. Now, when she needed it, it wasn’t there.

            Now Ziyal’s eyes were tearing up, her head tilted, second tongue throwing tones of _reproach/betrayal_ over the words she spoke. “But I always thought he couldn’t really understand you. I thought you were a kind person. I wanted to be more like you. Now, I feel like such a child – thinking you could ever care about me at all!”

            Kira’s new, quiet mind took in Ziyal’s words without reaction. She nodded.

            “Then you should understand why I don’t want you to have the life I’ve had, and why I want to get you out of this.”

            Ziyal froze for a moment, trapped by her own emotions, her own words. The look in her eyes was almost panicked.

            “I – I – I want to get away from _you!”_  

            She turned and ran down the corridor, head down, tears overflowing.

            Kira didn’t follow. _Better to let her go. You got what you wanted._ Ziyal would need time to be alone, now, to process the conversation, to think – really think – about her future. Kira knew Ziyal hadn’t quite understood what she would be getting into if she stayed. She still didn’t. But now she had a possible future to look at. _Mine. Prophets. My life, being used as an object lesson in what_ not _to do…_

            It hurt. _Ah, a feeling._ She’d sacrificed so much of herself for Bajor. The girl who’d joined the Resistance had been full of dreams and hopes. She’d imagined the Cardassians destroyed, fleeing Bajor, unable to stand against the powers of what was good and right. That had stopped after her first mission, when she’d seen a friend die, when she’d crisped the flesh of his killer with a stolen Cardassian disruptor rifle and heard him gurgle out his death, when she’d realized how ugly this was going to be. She’d held on to the idea of a free Bajor as the one good, pure thing in her life, but she’d soon realized that she would not live to see it. Her hope had slowly melted into something less ambitious:  that when the phaser or knife or grasping hand found her and stole her life, she’d wake up on the Prophets’ Bajor, the only place where anyone could ever be truly free.

            And then… they’d won.

            But Kira Nerys still hadn’t been able to let go of what she’d been. She was still that twisted person, the one whose dreams had been poisoned by a life of ugliness. She knew it. It was why she shied from close friendships, why sometimes when Shakaar smiled at her she had to look away. _If any of them knew me, really knew me..._ It was her secret to shield, to carry within her like a shard of metal in her heart, stabbing with each beat.

 _At least, it was a secret._   But Dukat had seen right through her. And he’d told _Ziyal,_ the innocent, the one who’d only ever seen Kira as a protector, as a friend…

 _The son of a bitch. The faithless_ bastard _._ Anger surged through her, filling her empty shell, straightening her spine. Her fists clenched.

            A twisted failure of a person. _Almost_ worthy of being a Cardassian, if not for the unfortunate flaw of being a Bajoran. Her life – her fight – tutted over, tsk tsk, poor dear, too bad she’s so violent, whatever was she thinking, growing up that way?

 _So I’m your soiled dove, am I, Dukat? You_ pity _me? How kind of you – when you, and everyone like you, are the reason I’m so damned dirty in the first place!_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira confronts Dukat. As usual, he'd rather not answer for his actions.  
> Set in/around S4E14 "Return to Grace".

_Be my one_  
 _My day in the sun_  
 _My little pop gun_  
 _The best thing I've done_

            _“Dukat!”_

            Kira’s voice rang out on the cramped Klingon bridge, reverberating off its metal angles.

            Dukat swivelled the captain’s chair around slowly to face her. He was obviously in a good mood; he was smiling, and it was hardly predatory at all. “Ah, Major. Have you found your yes, yet?”

            _What – oh._ He was talking about their conversation not an hour before, when he’d asked her to join him in his fight against the Klingons. _I’m not asking you to like me or to be my friend,_ he’d said, _I’m asking you to join me. I know every fibre of your being is telling you to say no, no, no… but somewhere among all those “no”s is a “yes.”_ And she hadn’t answered, she’d tucked it away, considering…

            Why did it hurt to find out that someone she despised thought so little of her in return?

            Through a thick layer of anger, she forced the words out. “Dukat, we need to talk.”

            His head tilted; a slight smile. “Major, I am quite busy – “

            “You’re going to make the time.”

            The smile faded a little. He paused, studying her. His lips pursed, then eased back into the smirk they so often wore. “I suppose that I could spare a moment for you, Major, as a special favour. Damar, you have the bridge.”

            The younger Cardassian nodded as Dukat eased himself up from the chair and strode past her, through the angular bridge doors. She’d been prepared, though, and matched his step as he entered the corridor, not letting him get ahead of her, not letting him make her feel like she was wasting his time. _I know your Cardassian games. You will not dominate me._

            They walked down the hall together, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the corridor. Without looking at her, he addressed her.

            “Well, Major? What would you like to say?”

            “I want you to explain yourself, Dukat.”

            Again, that mocking pause. “Major… I think that might take more time than we have.”

_Damn it, stop letting him get to you._

            “I want you to explain why you’ve been telling Ziyal that I’m a victim of my ‘unfortunate Bajoran birth and miserable upbringing.’” Her voice was steady, all her turmoil tucked neatly away where it couldn’t betray her. Only the slight trembling of her hands could give her away. She tucked them behind her back.

            Dukat eyed her, saw the movement of her hands. _Kotok temell, huh? I’m not Cardassian. You don’t get to read me that way._

            “Ziyal… told you that?”

            “She did.” _Don’t you dare lie._

            “That’s a pity. I shall have to talk to that girl.”

            “You’ll talk to me.”

            Dukat’s step slowed slightly. He sighed, sounding almost exasperated. “Major, what exactly do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean it? That wouldn’t be true.”

            Kira shook her head, lips firmly set. “As happy as I am that you’re discovering honesty this late in life, I didn’t ask for your apology. Coming from you, it wouldn’t mean anything anyway. I want to know _why._ ”

            Dukat was silent for a moment. Mulling? Thinking up a lie? His voice, when he spoke, was almost reluctant.

            “Because she cares for you, Major. She looks up to you. And I don’t want her to get hurt.”  And his posture said, _truth._

            For the second time in the same day, Kira found herself briefly at a loss for words. She stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowing.

            “You… you’re worried I’m going to hurt her? That _I_ am going to hurt her? She has _you_ for a father, Dukat – she is gonna end up bruised.”

            Now Dukat pulled his head back, looking slightly hurt. “Major. I love my daughter. I’ve sacrificed everything for her—“

 _How blind can you be?_ “You took her into _battle_ , Dukat! You took the _Groumall_ up against the Klingons with her on board!”

            His body lines changed, _resolution/dutiful._ “That is different, Major. That is battle. All on board have elected to serve.”

            “Ziyal didn’t sign up to be part of your war, Dukat! She just wants to be with her father, for some reason I cannot figure out, and you put her in danger!”

            And now he stopped, and wheeled on her; she braced herself slightly. “So did _you_ , Major. If you were so concerned about Ziyal’s safety, why didn’t you insist that we run along home to Terok Nor and drop her off?”

 _I… I didn’t think of it._ “There wasn’t time.”

            “Of course there was. But you wanted to get straight to the battle, like the good little Resistance fighter you are, and damn all those who get in the way. Truly, Major, your gentle, caring soul is a model for me to study.”  His eyes were narrow, his lips thin.

            She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

            He relaxed slightly, although his expression did not change, and his voice dipped low, honeyed and mocking. “Oh, don’t torture yourself, Major. It worked, didn’t it? We _won._ ” And there was real joy in his voice for a moment there, and his eyes were looking at something past her, at the memory, glorious in his mind.

            She clenched her fists and lowered her head, glaring at him. _I don’t think I can handle much more of your self-indulgent bullshit._ “I don’t want to talk about your little moment in the sun, Dukat. I need you to understand that you are never to talk about me like that again. Not to Ziyal, not to anybody.”

            He refocused on her, reluctantly leaving his victory behind. “Talk about you like what, Major? Honestly? Truthfully?” 

            “Truthfully? You have no idea what truth is.”

            A slow reptilian blink. “I know what you are.”

 _No._   “You don’t know me, Dukat. Ziyal said you think of me as a… failed Cardassian? Because of my poor _upbringing?_ ”

            Dukat looked down, bringing his hands together in front of him and lacing the fingers loosely together. He seemed almost… apologetic.

            “Ah, Major… it just seems, sometimes, that you could have been more than you are.” A gesture took her in, head to toes. “I admit, I feel partially responsible. Perhaps if we’d been gentler to the Bajoran people, we could have prevented you all from stunting your emotional growth so terribly. You’re all so angry all the time.”  He looked directly at her.  “It makes me sad.”

            And if she’d thought she had been angry before, this wash of rage made her almost incandescent. She was ready to lead a raid, to burn a camp, to fight anyone she had to, starting with this… this _creature_ before her.

            “How _dare_ you! How _dare_ you tell her those things! How _dare_ you suggest that the life I’ve had to lead – that _you_ made me lead – has made me _dirty!”_ She was trembling now, feet planted, wanting so badly to swing, to punch that forgiving, charitable look off his face.

            “Oh, it’s not just you, Major,” and he sounded honestly distressed. “Please understand, this is not personal. Ziyal and I have discussed Bajorans as a people. I felt she needed some cultural perspective to understand the way they think, the way she would be treated if she were ever to return to Bajor. Cardassia was a better place for her, a safer place, a more… moral place.”

            Incomprehension tightened her features. “Cardassia, more moral than Bajor?”

            His mouth pulled down, his hands gesturing _mild impatience_. “Of course. Cardassia is strong. Bajor is weak. On Cardassia, the rules are clear, and easy to understand and follow. Bajor is, sadly, quite chaotic. And, truth be told, Ziyal needs strong moral guidance. Growing up as a slave in a dilithium mine is perhaps not the best place to learn how to be a good person.”

            She wanted to laugh. “And now _you’re_ going to be her moral compass? That is a joke, Dukat. The only good thing you’ve ever done in your life was to save that girl.”

            Dukat’s eyes opened wide; his nostrils flared. That had struck home. _Good, hurt a little, the Prophets know it’s your turn._

            “Oh, my moment of weakness has made me a better person in your eyes?”  He barked a laugh. “Well, that must mean it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I must be careful. Any more selfless acts and I’ll be a veritable Bajoran – a true paragon of virtue.”

            “You could do worse. You could keep being _you._ ”

            She felt his anger, rising to meet her own. _Finally, finally_ – she could feel it – any moment, she would strike –

            “ _Enough_ , Major.”

            _What?_

            He was turning to walk away. “As delightfully confrontational as this conversation has become, I fear I simply don’t have time for it.”

            _No. Don’t leave, you bastard, don’t you_ dare – “Oh, yes, you’re terribly busy. Gul Dukat, thorn in the side of the Klingon Empire! Gul Dukat, defending the honour of Cardassia with a bold word and a pop gun! Gul Dukat – “

            But he was already striding away from her down the corridor, hands at his sides, face turned away, _kotok temell_ seen only in the tension along the lines of his shoulders.

            “Dukat, wait!”  She would not chase him. She would not give him that satisfaction.

He stopped, reluctantly, but did not turn to face her. His voice was flat. “ _What?_ ”

            And now her voice was quiet, too, as she let her anger filter out of her. “Dukat, she can’t stay here.”

            He knew what she meant. She could tell from the slight angle of his head, from the flicker of his right hand, _responsibility_.

            “… Because of what I am?”

            “Because of what _I_ am. And what she’ll become, if she stays. If you’re right about me, do you really want to see your daughter end up the same way?”

            Dukat’s head bowed slightly. He seemed about to turn, to look back. She could see the hesitation, and she saw the moment when he dismissed it.

            He walked away from her without speaking. She was left with nothing but frustrated rage.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira wonders why she can't walk away from Dukat. What kind of hold has he got on her? What is wrong with her, anyway?  
> Set in/around season 4, episode 14, "Return to Grace".

_Be my youth_  
 _My kissing booth_  
 _My little sweet tooth_  
 _My beauty and truth_

            Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Lots of time to think. _This is hell._

            Kira sat in her quarters, perched on the incredibly uncomfortable Klingon bunk, feet on the floor, head in her hands. She had no one to talk to on this ship, and nothing to distract herself with. What little entertainment she’d brought in her luggage had been left behind on the _Groumall,_ and she certainly wouldn’t be seeing it again. She’d occupied some time with trying to clean herself and her uniform in the rudimentary Klingon facilities, and a little more with prayer, but now she was left with nothing else to do but consider her situation.

            _I need to get off this ship._

            It was still at least one more day’s travel back to DS9. The warbird was cruising at a comfortable speed, but Dukat was in no hurry to get back to Federation space. It was like he was taunting his enemies, daring the Klingons to approach, to question why their warbird was off its planned flight path. _Arrogant, selfish bastard. His daughter’s safety is the last thing on his mind._

            And speaking of said daughter, Ziyal was avoiding her, and Kira couldn’t really fault her for it. Any conversations they could have, right now, would be far too fraught with emotion to be appealing. Unfortunately, that left her without any companions on the ship. She didn’t know anybody else well enough to talk to, and she certainly wasn’t interested in trying to make friends. _Most likely they’ll all be dead in a month anyway. I have enough dead friends._

            So she sat by herself in the gloomy half-light of the warbird, and chased herself around in circles. She had some uncomfortable facts to face, and she was trying to find the courage to look them in the eye. The best she’d been able to manage so far was a slow sidle up, a peer through peripheral vision.

            _This is the first place I’ve felt like I fit in a very long time._

            There, she’d acknowledged it. That was a first step. Now she had to figure out what that meant.

            In the last few days, she’d stepped out of her diplomatic persona and back into the long-discarded role of a Resistance fighter. To her discomfort, she’d found that it still wore well. She’d moved instinctively from tactic to tactic, seeing possibilities, changing plans on the fly, doing what had to be done until she was on top and all the others were disarmed or dead. It had been just like old times.

            A few short years ago, she would have done anything to get out of those times. Why did she now feel like…

_Like I’ve been asleep for years, and I’m finally waking up._

            She closed her eyes, and breathed out. _But the dream was so nice…_

            It had never quite felt real, though, had it. To stop fighting. To solve problems through talk. To have friendships that could last more than a month or two. To have enough food, enough shelter, enough time... _Can I ever really belong in that world? Am I just fooling myself to think that there could be more to me than a soldier, born to war, bred to fight?_

            Taking on the Klingons – strategizing, deceiving, then striking, all unseen – had been so easy, so natural. It was almost… seductive.

            And Dukat – _easy, Nerys, take this one slowly -_ was part and parcel of it all. She couldn’t forget what he was: a murderer without conscience, who would not even recognize his crimes. That knowledge made her feel even worse about the fact that she’d found it so easy to work with him. Their minds, it seemed, operated in similar ways. The thought alone made anger flare within her. _Prophets, save me. Wash me clean._

            And the anger… where was it coming from? She thought she’d almost tamed it, but here it was again, as rich and red and raw as it had ever been, burning within her whenever Dukat turned his eyes on her. She knew that rising to his mocking challenges, answering his angry words with venom of her own, was exactly the wrong thing to do. The best way of handling Dukat would be to smile pleasantly at him, to veil her eyes with disinterest, to be soft and pliant and so slip away from his notice, out of his grasp.

            _So why can’t I do it? Prophets, what is wrong with me?_

            She felt broken. She wanted to cry.

            Instead, she got up and went to find something to eat.

 

            In the dingy Klingon mess hall, Kira sat in the corner, staring at her plate of replicated Klingon food. _Let’s see. Bloody meat I don’t recognize. Some kind of… plum? Sour, of course. And it’s all tastefully presented on a bed of tiny worms._ Prophets, what she wouldn’t give for a plain _hasperat_ roll.

            She speared some of the plum with her fork, and bit into it without much interest, her gaze flicking across the others in the mess hall. The Cardassians were gathered in groups of twos and threes, chatting together. Excitement seemed to be the predominant emotion, although it was tempered slightly with anxiety. _Kotok temell_ flickered bits and pieces of conversation at her, _worry/anger/delight_. She looked away. _Excited, like children. A chance to fight back, to defeat your oppressors? It must seem just like a spun-tale come true._

            And he walked in.

            She watched Dukat as he crossed to the replicator, ordered, and sat. She noted his every movement as he settled to his meal, reading from a Cardassian PADD, each bite of food precisely stabbed and eaten without muss or fuss, his attention elsewhere. No emotion flickered within her as she watched. It was like being back on observation duty, seeing the Cardassians mill around their camps like ants. _Watch. See everything, judge nothing. Any detail could be important, could hold victory or defeat._

            Suddenly he paused and looked up, eyes narrowed, scanning the room. His gaze moved smoothly over his crew, taking in their conversation and tumult of second tongue much as she had. When his eyes turned to her, they stopped. She stared back, impassive.

            For a few long seconds, they looked at each other without emotion. She saw the fatigue in his face, under his arrogant expression. No doubt he saw hers too, barely hidden, pulling her down. In that moment, they saw each other, and were at rest.

            And then his mouth pulled down, his eyes narrowed, and his brow ridges seemed to tauten across his face. The message was clear. _Do you have a problem with me, Major?_

            The sudden change hit Kira like a blow. _Look away. Look away!_ Some part of her was shrieking at her to keep her face blank, face the wall, _hide hide hide,_ because this was _not_ a safe game she was playing, and _why couldn’t she stop playing it?_

            Instead, she stared back at him, challenging, her upper lip curling slightly in disgust. _You want me to look away? You look away first, you bastard. You hide your face from_ me.

He took in her expression, and tilted his head slightly, as if considering. The moment stretched.

            And he did turn away – dismissively, turning back to his food as if he’d seen nothing worthy of his notice at all. Deliberately, he lifted another forkful of food to his mouth; his fingers tapped at his PADD, reviewing crew rosters or engine efficiencies or whatever Prophets-damned thing he considered more important than her _._ The insult was tuned to her specific frequency, and it came through loud and clear.

            She almost gaped. _Nothing? Am I nothing to you?_ She wanted to stride over to his table and smack the PADD out of his hand, to make him look at her, listen to her, to get _through_ to the son of a bitch. How dare he look away from her as if… as if she didn’t _matter?_

           Wait… what? For him to look away – wasn’t that what she wanted?

_What is this? What am I doing?_

 

           Once, when she was a child, she’d snuck out of the assigned play area in the internment camp, and run off to somewhere she wasn’t allowed to go, precisely because she wasn’t allowed to go there. The Peldren Cliffs were high, and they could be treacherous. _Petreko_ were known to nest there, and loose rock and shale made the cliffs tricky to climb, but the reward once you reached the top was a view of the Dakhur Plains that was hard to beat, especially for an eight-year-old that spent too much time looking at the ground.

           She’d climbed to the top, along with a few other kids with more daring than sense, and they’d stood together on the edge of the cliffs and watched the _kerritin_ flying through the sky. The birds had seemed so free, wheeling on the breeze, darting and playing. Kira had looked up at them, then down at the ground below her, stretching out and away, and for a moment she’d had the urge to take a step out into space, to let gravity take her, to plummet and fall. She would smash on the rocks, and that would be the end of her, but for a few seconds, she would touch nothing but air. Nothing would restrain her or hold her down. For a few seconds, she would be free.

           That sweet, yearning feeling had terrified her. She’d shaken herself free and taken a few steps back from the edge of the cliffs, trembling. _I don’t want to die. I don’t!_ The other children had clustered around her, and seeing her face so pale, had offered what comfort they could. One boy had said, his voice shaking, that he had felt the same pull at the cliff’s edge. Another had nodded, agreeing. Nobody wanted to talk about it any more than that. Talking about it would make it real.

           That day, they had climbed back down the cliffs, carefully, watching each other. That day, they had returned to the camp, and been punished for leaving, and what was another day without rations? Not so bad, for the chance to hear a _kerrit_ singing, to see the sky. But Kira had never gone back to those cliffs. She couldn’t forget the voice of the void, calling to her, _come, let go, be free…_

           As she looked at Dukat, as her gaze burned into him, she heard the call of the cliffs again.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira confronts Dukat. Immolation has never seemed so attractive.  
> Set in/around season 4 episode 14, "Return to Grace".

_Be my what_  
 _My open and shut_  
 _My everything but_  
 _My little hot slut_

Dukat speared his last bite and ate it, then rose to return his plate to the replicator. She watched in disbelief as he moved towards the door of the mess hall, without turning, without acknowledging her in any way. _Oh, no, you don’t._ Before she knew it, she was on her feet, striding towards him.

“Dukat. Wait.”

He paused and turned towards her, his expression polite, no hint of the hostility he’d flashed her way not a minute before. “Is there something you would like to say to me, Major?”

 _Oh, there are about a thousand things, you—_ “Dukat, we need to finish what we started.”

His expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Major, this is perhaps not the place to have this discussion.”

“Then we walk.”

His brow ridges arched slightly, and he lifted his left arm and gestured as if to bow her through the mess hall door. His thin lips curved slightly in an indulgent smile. _You’re not even taking me seriously. Fine. But you will listen._

She waited for him in the corridor. Again, he walked past her without stopping; this time, however, she let him get a few steps ahead, then followed behind, away from his eyes, his teeth.

“Dukat…” _Oh, this is not fun._ “Dukat, I’m sorry about before.”

An indulgent laugh. “Of course you are, Major, and I’m sorry too. I confess, I cried myself to sleep last night.”

“ _Damn it_ , Dukat, I’m _serious!”_   She needed to reach him, she was leaving herself wide open here, couldn’t he stop for just one minute?

He must have heard something in her voice, for his stride slowed, then stopped. He turned to face her, and there were those eyes again, assessing her. As always, she came up short. “Really, Major? Are you really apologizing to me?”

 _Am I?_   “I… Yes, I am. I’m sorry. I got angry with you. I said some things I wish I hadn’t.” Feeling almost guilty, she angled her right hand just so, turned it slightly, _failure/responsibility_ , just as she’d seen young Cardassian guards do when their superiors were chewing them out. There, good, she’d done her bit for universal peace, now maybe they could get back to the subject of Ziyal.

Dukat’s eyes widened, and he looked her up and down in surprise and – _amusement?_ He was _laughing_ at her!

“Oh, Major, how disappointing! You do give up easily!”  And he turned away again, his long strides carrying him down the hall.

 _Me? Give up easily? Bastard!_ He knew how to get to her without even trying. Every wall she put up, he tore down effortlessly.

“Dukat, get _back_ here!”  She followed him, her stride lengthening. “Prophets damn it all, I am trying to talk to you! Why won’t you listen to me?”

“Oh, believe me, Major,” his voice drifted back, “I hear every word you say. I just don’t believe any of it.”

She was incredulous. “What? Damn it, Dukat, I am being honest with you – “

And he stopped, suddenly, and turned to face her, planted in the middle of the hallway, blocking her way. His eyes were intense; she was pinned by his gaze.

“But are you being honest with _yourself?”_

This conversation didn’t make any sense. She kept getting knocked off balance. No, worse, she was knocking _herself_ off balance. It was like trying to fight a _besson_ master, never quite able to catch them, your own momentum defeating you.

“Dukat, what do you _mean?”_

He smiled at her. It looked more like a snarl. “I mean, Major, that I think it’s time we stopped these games.”

She drew her head back. “What?”

Now he was moving towards her, slowly, like a _petrek_ creeping along the ground towards its hypnotized prey. _Too close._ She stepped backward; his smile widened.

His voice was suddenly low, hissing. “Major, you want me, and I want you just as much, and there are certainly better places to deal with that than out here in the hallway, don’t you think?”

Dumbstruck, paralyzed, trapped. “ _What?_ ”

“Major,” and it was almost a purr, “you are repeating yourself.” And he stepped close, too close, his lips just a hands-breadth from hers, and she could feel his breath on her face. “We both know I’m right. I can read you, Major. The tone of your voice, the way you stand, every look that crosses your face tells me you want me. Your flirtation is almost impertinently obvious.” He angled his head slightly. “By Cardassian standards, you are throwing yourself at me.”

Astonishment gave way to anger, bright and hot. “I – you – you think – I am not a _Cardassian_ , Dukat!”  Her voice was low, matching his, but it shook with rage.

“Oh, forgive me, Major,” and that strange snarling smile widened just a touch, “I wouldn’t want to insult you. It’s just that you are so very Cardassian at heart that you sometimes make me forget.”

Now her hands were shaking too; she forced them to stop. “This is – this is _ridiculous.”  Prophets, what if someone sees us?_   But he was whispering, and so was she, and Cardassians couldn’t hear worth a damn, and they’d never know, and she had to get _away_ –

“It _is_ ridiculous, isn’t it, Major. But we all have our little vices, our dirty little secrets.” He was enjoying this, the bastard, the _bastard._ “I’m certainly not proud of how attracted I am to you. I mean, what are you? A Bajoran. A _bureaucrat,_ ” and he spat the word at her, “a figurehead with no real power, pretending you’ve moved on from your miserable past, eking out a living on a piece of discarded Cardassian refuse. That station is a relic of the Occupation, Major, and so are you.”

Her face was tight. She could feel her heart hammering as anger flamed within her. “And you fit perfectly into the new Cardassia, right, Dukat? That’s why you were flying that shitpile of a freighter? That’s why your own government won’t _listen_ to you? Seems to me you might be missing the war a little bit yourself.”

His _kotok temell_ was pounding at her, _anger/lust/conviction!_ “I have moved on, Major! That’s why it disgusts me so that I want you so badly. A dirty little Bajoran, one step removed from scrabbling in the gutter. Any Cardassian woman would have ten times your presence, your grace.”

She nodded, _uh huh,_ _here’s one back to you -_ “Too bad the Cardassian woman you married finds you just as repulsive as I do!” A low blow, a clean hit, _you’re mine now._ Within her, the flame kindled, grew.

Dukat’s nostrils were flaring, his eyes wide. He laughed softly, harshly. “Repulsive? Ah, Major. Don’t you worry. Nobody back on the station has to find out about your… inclination. We can scratch our little itch here, in private. After all, I wouldn’t want you to tarnish your already sadly flawed reputation.”

 _Arrogant asshole!_ She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, causing little stabs of pain. “If you think I want _anything_ from you – “

“Oh, but you do, Major, and you insult us both by pretending you don’t.” He spoke faster now, hissing, tongue flickering between his lips as he bit out the words. “I know that you know Cardassians better than you want to admit. You can read me, and I’m certainly not hiding anything right now, Major, so if you don’t want me, _why are you still here?_ ”

The question she most wanted to avoid. She dodged it, weaving back to her original point – “We need to talk about Ziyal – “

“I am not going to be _civil_ with you anymore, Major! It’s as I’ve said. I don’t need you to like me. I don’t want your friendship.” And somehow he was even closer, and she could smell him, like leather, like desert, like the fine sand atop the Peldren Cliffs. “But there are certain very specific things I _do_ want from you, Major. Give me the chance, and I will make you want them, too.” His hand moved sharply, as if to touch her.

She jerked away, bumping up against the corridor wall, hands braced against the metal. The edge of the Peldren Cliffs loomed before her. _Dangerous, he’s dangerous, don’t get too close!_ And another voice, whispering deep inside her mind, its voice the crackle of flame, _you know, it doesn’t really look like such a long way down…_

His eyes widened as he saw her move away, then narrowed. He withdrew his hand, and stepped towards her, his body language changing, now almost sinuous, almost mocking, _persuasion_. “Ah, I see. Perhaps it’s not revulsion at all that keeps you from me. Do you fear the thought of giving in to me, Major? You know, you are looking at a man with no standing at all. I have nothing to lose. If you prefer, I will surrender to you. Quite completely, if you wish. Think of it, Major – the figurehead of the Occupation, the hated oppressor of Bajorans, now reduced to... whatever you want me to be.” His voice dropped low, almost inaudible; the last few words were nothing but heat and breath, and a movement of his hand, _submission._

And she was so close to the cliffs now, one foot hovering over the edge, her eyes on the _kerritin_ crying out in the sky, and it would be so easy to relax and let herself fall—

Dukat leaned in, his hand tracing her neck lightly, lightly, his lips moving toward the angle of her jaw and neck, and he whispered, “Major, I think we are dangerously close to finding your yes…”

 _I – I – Prophets, I –_ she was on _fire -_

_And yet - if I do this, everything I have built burns –_

In his eyes, so close to hers, her future was laid out: a dead world, consumed by flame.

With a sudden, convulsive reflex, her hands came up between the two of them, crossing between Dukat’s arms and striking outwards to knock his hands away. He was caught completely unprepared. His shocked expression changed to anger and pain as she brought a knee up to his groin – _ooh, you were unsheathed? Overconfident, Dukat, and now you pay for it!_ As he buckled, she wheeled away from him, grabbed his shoulders with her hands and twisted him, forcing him up against the wall. Her arm came up against his neck, pressing against his airway, and she leaned in close, teeth bared, eyes mere centimetres from his.

“Dukat. You will never, ever, ever have my 'yes.' You will never try anything like this again. And you will never tell anyone that this happened. Because if you do, I will kill you. Are we clear?”

His eyes were wide, pupils contracted with pain, his breathing hissing slightly as she leaned against his throat. She could still taste his breath, smell his skin.

His head tilted, just barely, second tongue whispering _respected adversary_. He nodded once, and met her eyes impassively.

For a moment, she wanted to hurt him anyway. To bite, to scratch, to tear at him, to scream her fury. There were flames behind her eyes; she saw them dancing, reflected in his own. _How dare you, how dare you –_

Instead, she pulled away abruptly, dropped him to the corridor floor, and walked away without looking back. She knew he wouldn’t follow.

 

She strode through the ship calmly, not running. Nothing attracted attention faster than someone trying not to attract attention. She smiled at the few crewmembers she saw; they smiled back, and if they saw anything different in her manner, they didn’t show it. _Normal. Normal. It all goes back to normal now._

Eventually, a few centuries later, she reached her quarters. She tapped in her access code, entered, allowed the door to slide shut behind her, toggled the secure lock—

And collapsed against it, and slid to the floor, shaking, almost in tears, because she’d _seen –_

 _I do want him. I do._ The fire still roared within her, her _pagh_ alive with it, every nerve singing out its heated keen.

Dukat was the embodiment of every ugly thing about her past. Every time she tried to break away from what she’d been, he turned up to remind her. His face called up ghosts, both friends and foes, that she would much rather let lie. And yet, when she saw him, she went to him, because –

 _Because he makes me so angry. And I’ve been angry for so long… I don’t know what will happen if I stop. Prophets, it feels so good, he can make me feel so_ good _–_

When she was angry, she felt whole and holy, like an avatar of the Prophets. The world stretched out in front of her, without limits. She’d been a weapon once, striking down the foes of Bajor, imbued with righteous rage. That rage had no place in her life now, but she didn’t know how to function without it. She’d tried to kill it, but could never quite bring herself to smother it completely; the flame was too lovely, its fragrance too sweet.

_So I run back to Dukat. Because I know him, and he knows me. Because as horrible and frightening and sick as he is, he is familiar. And nothing else is._

_What is left for me, if I don’t burn?_

But a fire couldn’t burn without fuel, and this… this wasn’t good enough. There was no future here. Staying on this ship, living on scraps of rage from a war nobody else remembered, she and Dukat devouring each other day by day to stay alive? Soon she wouldn’t be alive at all. Something would move and breathe, and it might call itself Kira Nerys, but the _pagh_ within it would be shrivelled and dead.

She remembered the glory of the cliffs, the _kerritin_ singing, so bright against the sun, the plains stretching out forever –

And the promise of an end to pain, waiting at the bottom.

_Is the only way to be safe from the song of the cliffs to walk away, and leave the view behind?_

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira faces putting out her flame, and learning to walk in darkness.  
> Set in/around season 4, episode 14, "Return to Grace".

_Be my thrill_  
 _My little white pill_  
 _My wait up until_  
 _The one who will_             

She faced him, across the bridge, their eyes meeting.

The night before, she’d sat on the floor in her quarters, holding herself in strict meditation, allowing no movements. She’d centred herself and focussed on the bright flame flickering within her _pagh_. She’d watched it dance, and opened herself to the Prophets, hoping they would blow through her thoughts, weave her tattered threads together. It had been hard – so hard – to let go of the sweetness of the fire, but the Prophets’ wind had soughed through her, and she’d seen the flame blown this way and that, weakening, fading. A part of her had wanted to cry out against its dying. _Must I lose my only light?_

Again and again, throughout the night, she’d found her focus slipping, and the flame had leapt again. Again and again she’d relaxed, allowed the flames to burn lower and lower, separating herself from their warmth. She hadn’t slept. She’d barely moved. Ship’s dawn had found her still seated on the floor, arms bent, hands raised, her fire banked low. _I could never do this before. But I’ve never been this scared before._

Now it was only an ember within her, barely glowing, not enough to keep her warm. She missed it desperately. And yet, without it, she found she could see more clearly. The firelight had been beautiful, but the shadows it threw obscured everything else. Perhaps she’d be better off learning to see in the dark.

Through the dimness, she looked at Dukat. He, too, was changed. He’d been so hypnotic in the madly dancing glow of the flames. In her new twilight, he faded into obscurity.

His _kotok temell_ was subdued, almost absent. The slight tilt of the head, _respected adversary_ , was still present, and she found herself glad for that. _Perhaps we’ve both begun to learn. Will miracles never cease._

She saw resignation in his features. He let out a slow breath. “I’m disappointed, Major.”

"But not surprised.”  _After yesterday, I think things are quite clear._

His eyes had studied the floor; now they flicked up to her face, their blue duller than she remembered it. “Tell me… were you even tempted?”

 _And what do I say to that? How much of myself would you like me to bare? I’m done opening to you._ Her heartbeat was slow, dull in her chest. “Not really.”

He looked tired, arrogance leached from him, but he retained enough dignity to whisper in second tongue, _doubt._ “And I thought I was so eloquent.”

 _Oh, you were._ She remembered the web he’d woven, and how much she’d wanted to wrap herself up in it, like a protective cloak, like a burial shroud. “You had your moments.”

For an instant, she allowed herself the memory, bittersweet; the flame within her leapt high. _Warm…_

But this wasn’t safe, and she was done with this, she had to be. She had climbed this cliff already, and once was enough.

“The fact of the matter is, I’ve already been where you’re going. I’ve already lived the life you’re choosing. Fighting hit and run, always outgunned, living on nothing but adrenaline and hate… it’s not much of a life, and it eats away at you so that every day a little part of you dies.”  The words fell between them, marking out the barrier between where he was going and where she’d once been.

She looked at him, and he looked back. For a moment, she wanted to laugh. They’d already had this conversation; the words were the same, but neither of them had been able to hear over the roar of the flames. Now everything was ashes, grey and dirty, and every word was clear.

Finally he looked away, with a small smile. “Very inspiring, Major. But I have no choice in this.” He turned, and gazed at her, and his body whispered _longing/regret._   “No more than you did, when you were fighting against… us.”

 _Well._ Could it be there was a part of him that had wanted more of her than her body? The thought made her almost sad, in a remote kind of way; it was nothing this twilight Kira could do anything about. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

He understood, and straightened, dismissing whatever sentiment had moved through him. “Then all that’s left is for you to wish me luck.”

“That’s not quite all. There’s still Ziyal.” 

His eyes met hers, their expression briefly haunted. His voice was flat. “What about her?”

“The life you’re choosing isn’t for her. She deserves better.”

He hadn’t wanted to face this, she could tell. He’d really hoped that she’d leave, abandoning Ziyal to this life, this future. _Prophets grant that I will never be that heartless._

He clung to what had worked in the past. “She deserves to be with her father. You taught me that.”  And a look that made her want to flinch, his eyes so bleak. “I love her.”

 _Perhaps not so heartless. But selfish. In the end, you only ever see yourself._   “I know you do. That’s why you have to let her go.”

 

That night, she sat in her quarters on Deep Space 9, eyes closed, kneeling before her _chirren_. Its circles within circles pulled her in.

 _My life. I’m back._ And it felt like her life again. When she’d entered her quarters, it had felt like home, like where she belonged. She hadn’t wanted to admit to herself how much she’d worried that it would feel like… something else.

 _A prison._ Might as well flip the _pemmel_ on its back if you wanted to study its scales. She’d been walking the same small path over and over on the station for so long, afraid to explore, to see what else might be out there. _I locked my own cell door, and pretended I was free._ She’d been almost frightened to come back, to lock herself in again.

And here she was, in her cell – but this time, by choice. _The door is open. And it makes all the difference._

She had been convinced, deep down, that there was nothing more to her than an angry, bitter soldier. She’d been certain that any effort to move beyond that would lead to humiliating exposure, to certain defeat. The idea had been so terrifying. Easier to stay angry, to stay trapped. That way you never had to face the possibility that freedom might be more than you could handle.

But the last few days, so familiar in their confined intensity, in their futile battles and unexpected victories, had been illuminating in more ways than one. The future she’d seen waiting for her in Dukat’s eyes had been a hell of a lot scarier than freedom could ever be. _No more cells. No more doors._

She looked within herself, her mind moving like the _chirren_ , drifting in smooth circles. Her _pagh_ was still, the flame within her banked with ashes. It was very quiet.

From this new place, she looked out over the edge of the Peldren Cliffs, and saw the _kerritin_ drifting on white wings, catching air currents, rising up into a darkened sky. She watched them for an endless time, then turned her eyes to the Dakhur plains, wide before her. Their limitless possibilities stretched out, obscured by night. The horizon was unfathomably far away; surely she’d never reach it.

The urge to leap was gone. Here in the dark, the siren song of the cliffs was silenced, their dangerous beauties invisible to her eye.

And the flame she’d yearned for… she studied the embers. They were still hot, still dangerous. As she looked, they flared bright for a moment, red as blood. She felt the heat radiate through her, so intense it was almost painful.

She remembered Dukat, embracing his daughter, both of them whispering in second tongue to each other, _family/surrender_ , so intimate that she’d wanted to look away. It had been so strange to look at him that way:  her hated enemy, once closer than breath, now so unfamiliar. _I have so much to learn._

He’d released Ziyal and kissed her lightly, and turned to Kira, his tone slightly wry, almost as if he too were clutching for something familiar in this new, confusing darkness. “Well, Major, it would appear that whether you like it or not, our lives have become deeply intertwined.” His face had held a quiet plea.

She hadn’t known what to say. Anger had been the only thing she could ever offer Dukat, and now she was so still. She’d veiled her eyes with disinterest, and smiled pleasantly, and it had been so easy. Her response had been polite, distant. “That really pleases you, doesn’t it.”

Dukat had blinked, and inclined his head. “Pleases me? Why, Major, it gives me reason to live.”  Once more she’d seen the reaching in his face, the need for her to flare at him, to warm him with her own rage.

She’d had nothing to give him. _Once you called me cold. You had no idea._

She watched the embers now as they died down again. Part of her still yearned for the heat of the flame.

Another part of her looked away from the ashes, into unexplored night.

 

 

_And we tumble down like Jack and Jill_   
_And I miss all of the joy you kill_   
_But I love you still_   
_Be my thrill_

_\--the weepies, “Be My Thrill”_

 

 


End file.
